


Nothing Ever Lasts Forever

by hull1984



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bandom cameos, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hull1984/pseuds/hull1984
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron and Harry meet during their exchange year at an American University.  Ron isn't having much fun until he meets Viktor at a party.  Things pretty much go down hill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Ever Lasts Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 GingerLust Fest. Thank you to incoherenteye for the beta. Random bandom cameos abound (because I can't seem to stop myself).

“I hate my life,” Ron groaned into the pillow he was hugging to his chest.

Harry chuckled from the opposite bed. “What’s Zabini done this time?” he asked.

Ron let out a snort, but at least he finally removed his head from the pillow (Harry had been worried about accidental asphyxiation). Sitting up, Ron turned to face Harry.

“Oh God, Harry, I never thought I’d say this but I wish it _was_ Blaise.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. They’d been there two months now and, apart from two short, blissful weeks when Ron had been without a room-mate, every day had brought forth a litany of complaints regarding Blaise Zabini (and Harry had met the bloke, so he knew he hadn’t suddenly become any _less_ annoying).

No. Clearly, something extraordinary had occurred. Harry sat up a little straighter.

Ron frowned. “Though, now that you mention it…”

Harry slumped. So fucking close.

“Have I told you about the moisturiser?”

Ron didn’t bother to wait for an answer (in fairness, Harry didn’t try to offer one; the Zabini Rants were legendary by this time).

“Harry, the guy gets up every day at 7am. That’s 7 o’clock in the MORNING!” Ron shook his head. “Which, you know, would be fine. If he didn’t also wake me up to the sound of cream being slapped loudly onto bare skin. Again. And again. And AGAIN.”

Ron suddenly sat upright, a stunned look on his face. “Bloody hell, Harry, I’m going to kill the bastard.” He turned tormented eyes to Harry. “He’s a bloke, Harry. A _bloke_. Why does he even _need_ to put moisturiser on his thighs?”

Harry really had no answer to that.

“And he’s naked, Harry.” Ron looked wretched now. He took a deep breath before continuing. “ _Naked_. And he. He. He bends over.” Ron’s voice cracked on the last word.

Harry couldn’t stand it any longer; the look of pure horror on Ron’s face was just too much. He let out a loud snort of laughter and fell off the bed.

Ron sighed. “Fuck off, Harry.”

~~~

A little while later, they were sitting in _The Deadwood_ nursing a couple of beers. Ron was slouched in his chair looking miserable and Harry was trying not to roll his eyes (it wasn’t easy; Ron wasn’t exactly enjoying his exchange year and this wasn't the first time Harry had been called upon to listen to his sad lament).

“So, apart from Zabini’s smooth, well-moisturised thighs-” Ron choked on his beer (Harry grinned evilly, timing was everything) “- how’s it going?”

Ron put his bottle back on the table. “It isn’t,” he said, grumpily. “Going,” he attempted to clarify at Harry’s perplexed look. “It isn’t going anywhere, Harry. My life just. Isn’t.” When Harry just shook his head and looked more confused, Ron slumped forward and pouted pitifully. “See?” He said. “ _This_ is what my life has become.”

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if talking to Ron at the Exchange Students Meet and Greet had really been such a good idea. He liked the guy, he did. He just wished he’d bloody cheer up.

“It’s my Literature and Psychology class.”

Harry looked up from where he’d been staring at his bottle. Okay, this might be good. The Literature and Psyche class had brought forth good stuff before. Frankly, he still didn’t understand what had possessed Ron to sign up for it in the first place.

“I don’t know what possessed me to sign up for it in the first place.” Ron picked forlornly at the label on his bottle of beer (Harry remembered reading somewhere that that was a sign of sexual frustration, and vaguely wondered if it had ever come up in Ron’s psyche class. Looking at Ron’s unhappy face, he hastily concluded that mentioning it at this point would probably earn him a punch in the head).

Before he could ask what specifically about the class was bugging Ron this time, a shadow fell across the table.

Ron looked up at the same time as Harry, and frowned at the boy standing there, his features smoothing quickly into a smile. “Oh hey, Malfoy,” he said, nodding at the other boy.

Harry couldn’t quite hide his shock (although, he wasn’t sure what was more surprising, Malfoy actually deigning to talk to them, or Ron’s own apparent _lack_ of surprise).

“Hey,” Malfoy returned Ron’s nod.

Harry and Ron looked at Malfoy expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. But the blond boy showed no sign of continuing, choosing instead to bite at his bottom lip and stare intently at the table.

Ron exchanged a perplexed look with Harry, shrugging in confusion before turning back to Malfoy.

“So, um, did you need something, Malfoy?” he asked, with a grin.

That seemed to snap the other boy out of his fugue and he turned suddenly hopeful eyes to Ron.

“Yes,” he replied, a little breathlessly. “Yes, um, I needed to ask,” he paused, and Harry couldn’t be sure in the dim lights of the bar, but he thought Malfoy might actually be blushing. What the fuck?

“That is,” Malfoy stopped again and shifted from one foot to the other. “I needed to ask,” he sighed, his shoulders suddenly slumping, “to borrow your menu.” And he picked up the narrow strip of cardboard from the table, before turning abruptly and walking away.

Harry looked across the table at Ron in wide eyed wonder. “What the hell was that?” He asked.

Ron shook his head, looking equally shocked. “I know,” he replied. “The git could have at least waited to see if we’d finished with it.”

Harry’s eyes widened further. “No. I think you’re missing the point, Ron.” When Ron continued to look confused he went on. “That was _Draco Malfoy_.”

Ron was looking at him now like he was an idiot. “Er, yes, Harry. I _know_. Hence the ‘hey, _Malfoy_ ’.” He rolled his eyes.

“No, no,” (and yes, okay, Harry might have spluttered a bit, but really it was too annoying). “Ron, I have lived next door to that little shit for two months now, and he has never so much as acknowledged my existence,” he paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Bugger, the little tit just did it again, didn’t he?” He shook his head. “Anyway, the point is, I’ve never seen him talk to anyone outside his little circle of cronies. And yet, here he is actually talking to you as if you’re a real human being.” He looked pointedly at Ron.

Ron shrugged again. “Don’t know what you’re going on about, mate. He talks to me all the time.” And he stood up, grabbing the two empty bottles from the table. “Same again?” he asked, heading to the bar when Harry nodded weakly in response.

Well.

Harry was experiencing that same swooping feeling of displacement that comes when you reach carefully down to take the next step, only to find yourself suddenly at the bottom of the stairs after all.

And he couldn’t help feeling that perhaps he’d missed a few steps in-between.

Draco Malfoy lived in the room next door to Harry, not that you’d know it from the amount of interaction between the two. Harry would have been quite happy to speak to the other bloke, but therein lay the problem. Draco Malfoy was the most arrogant, stuck up bastard that Harry had ever had the misfortune to come into contact with.

The obnoxious git refused to speak to his room-mate, let alone his neighbours. He never ate in the shared kitchen and refused to use the joint bathroom unless the rest of his suite-mates were out (he’d even been known to lock them out for a whole evening just so he could take a bath). Why he was even living in the dorms was anyone’s guess. It was abundantly clear that he came from money; his father was an Ambassador to the UN, or some such, and Harry had heard that his parents lived in a huge house in Hyannis Port.

And now, Ron was saying that he talked to Malfoy all the time.

Well, shit.

~~~

Harry yawned and scratched his head tiredly. He squinted at his alarm clock and groaned.

“Ron, come on, mate. I have to be up in three hours.”

Ron let out a jaw-cracking yawn of his own before nodding. “Okay, Harry.” He flicked through the pages of the large, hardback notebook on the bed in front of him. “I think I’ve got enough.”

Harry sighed in relief and slumped down onto his pillow.

“But let this be a lesson to you,” Ron admonished, shaking his finger at him. “Next time, _think_ before you make sweeping statements regarding other people’s class assignments.”

Before Harry could formulate an appropriately scathing response, Ron had gathered up his things and swept from the room. Fucker didn’t even have the courtesy to switch off the light.

“You’re welcome!” Harry shouted at the closing door (earning a thump on the wall and a muffled “shut the fuck up” from the room next door. Fucking Malfoy).

Okay, so technically you could argue that Harry was maybe _slightly_ to blame for Ron’s predicament. But only _very_ slightly. It’s not like Ron should have just taken his word for it, git still should have done his homework.

Bloody Psyche class. Harry was beginning to hate it as much as Ron. How was he supposed to know that the professor was a voyeuristic pervert (although yeah, his area of expertise should have probably clued Harry up on that one; you don’t get to be a doctor of psychology without harbouring _certain_ tendencies).

Still. It seemed a bit invasive. Setting your students the task of keeping a journal for the duration of the course, and then, pulling the dirty trick of actually asking them to submit the bloody thing for grading. Harry was pretty sure that it would never have happened at home (thank God, for good old English reserve). He had really felt on solid ground when he’d assured Ron that there was no way he’d ever have to produce an _actual_ journal. He should have known his words would come back to bite him in the arse.

Ron had returned to their table at _The Deadwood_ earlier that evening, with fresh beers and the chilling news that Professor Toro had cheerfully announced in class that day, that he’d like everyone to hand in their journals for grading. Toro had gone on to say, even more cheerfully apparently (the sadistic bastard), that this would make up twenty percent of their final grade. A red faced, rather strident Ron, had then produced an A4 sized notebook and flapped the very _empty_ pages in Harry’s appalled face.

“Drink up, Harry,” he’d instructed soon afterward, pointing at Harry’s beer. “Because you and I have one night to fill this book up with eight weeks worth of diary entries. And you better make it interesting, there’s no way I’m having Toro think I’m a total loser.”

They’d gone back to Harry’s room (Harry’s room-mate, Jon, practically lived at his friends’ apartment off-campus, so Harry pretty much had the room to himself), and spent the next five hours composing a fictional account of Ron’s life over the past couple of months. It had to be _fictional_ because Ron really was a total loser. From the moment of their very first meeting, Ron had made it abundantly clear just how much he didn’t want to be there; his unwavering refusal over the weeks that followed to accept any invitation to socialise or enjoy himself, pretty much cementing the sentiment. Harry counted it as a huge win that Ron had finally started to actually meet up with Harry outside of their dorm.

When Harry had questioned him about it, Ron had just shrugged and said that he missed his friends back home and didn’t like the idea of them graduating without him, hated the fact that when he went back next year they’d all be gone. Harry suspected there was more to it. From a couple of things that Ron had let slip when his guard was down (usually around the fourth beer), he had the idea that perhaps there was one person in particular that Ron missed, and that it was the thought of not seeing _that_ person again that had him so messed up. But Ron had shut down all of his attempts to dig deeper, refusing to be drawn out on the subject, so Harry had let it drop.

Whatever the true reason for Ron’s recent monastic lifestyle, it had certainly made it a challenge to come up with enough entries to fill the depressingly blank pages of Ron’s notebook. It had made for a rather trying night too. Things had grown particularly strained around the 3am point, when Ron had employed some hitherto undisclosed ninja stealth moves, to sneak up on Harry and read the latest journal entry he had been jotting down -

 _October 14th: Admired Blaise’s naked arse (how does he get his thighs so silky smooth, I wonder?). Lied to Harry about it. It is becoming increasingly hard to hide my flaming homosexual proclivities from Harry. He is so cunning (and devilishly handsome) that he is sure to figure it out soon. Thank goodness my humungous man-crush on Prof Toro remains hidden_ …

Harry had glared reproachfully at Ron as he'd rubbed the back of his abused head. “It’s not like I was really going to put it in,” he'd mumbled, churlishly. “Where’s your sense of humour?”

“I lost it somewhere around _2am_ , Harry,” Ron had responded, throwing the scrunched up page at Harry’s head.

Ron had soon forgiven him, however, when Harry had come up with the ingenious idea of padding things out with song lyrics.

“You just have to make a big deal at the start about music being your life and how inspired you are by the words and music of your musical heroes,” he’d explained, excitedly. “And bingo! Pages and pages filled with Morrissey’s struggle with celibacy.”

Ron had looked torn between hugging him, and kicking him in the face for the celibacy crack.

But the real trump - the thing that Harry reckoned meant he now _owned_ Ron - was the dream suggestion. Psychoanalysts ate that shit up. Ron had declared Harry a genius, and then made him write out as many of his dreams as he could remember (apparently, Ron never remembered his own dreams and if he did, then, they were always about food).

Harry had been reluctant at first - “fuck off, Ron!” - but well, the truth was, Harry had always been a little obsessed by his dreams (he’d even kept a dream journal when he was fourteen) and he just hadn't been able to stop his natural interest in the subject taking over.

He had enthusiastically filled several pages with dreams from his old journal - he'd been a little surprised by how many of the dreams featured knives - he seemed to have had a fascination when he was younger with sharp objects, and a number of his teenage dreams were filled with grabbing hold of, or poking other people with them. He had also seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time jumping through windows. How odd. Still better to share the details of those dreams, than his more recent ones, which tended to feature a lot more nudity, and a good deal of grabbing and poking of _other_ things.

It had been nearing 5am when Ron had finally left the room. Harry calculating the likelihood of actually staying awake for his 9am class, had re-set his alarm for noon, and crawled under his covers. Two minutes later, he had been fast asleep.

~~~

Harry was woken up by a text from Ron at 9am. Git.

_Meet u at arbys at 12.30 I’m buying_

In spite of being disturbed from his sleep, Harry couldn’t help smiling; at least the bastard was grateful for his efforts last night. He sent back a quick reply.

_k now f off + let me sleep_

He was just snuffling back under the covers when his phone beeped again.

_Aaaw sweet dreams bb_

Harry shook his head. Tosser. He switched his phone off and threw it over onto Jon’s empty bed.

~~~

Ron wasn’t just grateful, he was also very happy and relieved. So happy and relieved in fact, that he finally agreed to go to a party. Harry had asked as a matter of course, and really hadn’t been expecting a _yes_. Hearing Ron’s unexpected reply, he paused with his roast beef sandwich half-way to his mouth.

“Really?” Harry asked, blinking in disbelief.

Ron looked up from his curly fries and frowned. “Well, not if you don’t want me to,” he said, sulkily.

“No, no,” Harry waved his bun happily in Ron’s direction, stray bits of beef landing limply on the table between them. “That’s great. Really. I was just a bit surprised, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron rubbed the back of his neck and ducked his head. “It’s recently been brought to my attention that I may have been acting in a somewhat anti-social manner, and probably needed to get out and about a bit more.” He grinned over at Harry and rolled his eyes, “except maybe in less polite terms and with a few more expletives.”

“Who -,” Harry started to ask, but Ron interrupted him, shaking his head and mumbling, “No one you know, Harry.”

Harry noticed the way Ron’s smile faded, his mouth pulling down at the corners, and remembered the letter from home Ron had told Harry he’d found in his mailbox that morning. He picked up a fry and threw it at Ron’s head. “So what are you going to wear for your very first college party, Ron?” He asked with a wink.

Ron looked up at Harry in horror, “Jesus, what are we, Harry? Thirteen year old girls?”

Harry shrugged, grinning, “Well, we are at the _mall_ , and you did drag me into that shop earlier to show me the pair of shoes you’ve been coveting for the past three weeks.”

It was Ron’s turn to throw fries. “Fuck off, Harry. They were _sneakers_.”

Yeah, like that made a difference.

~~~

They were walking out of the mall, Ron enjoying a particularly vociferous Zabini Rant, when Harry saw Malfoy.

The blond boy was walking towards them but on the opposite side of the concourse. He was striding along, nose in the air, looking for all the world like he fucking owned the place (and rumour had it, he probably did). It reminded Harry, that he still hadn’t asked Ron about the encounter the previous day, and he turned toward Ron to do just that. Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to shut Ron up once he got on to the subject of Blaise Zabini.

“One fucking bagel, Harry,” Ron said, gesticulating wildly with his hands to emphasise his point. “ _One_ fucking bagel and that bastard ate it. I wouldn’t have minded,” he went on, “but the fridge was heaving with his stuff, all sorts of fancy fucking shit and he eats the _one_ bloody bagel I’ve got in there.” Ron’s voice had risen steadily as he warmed to his subject.

Harry glanced over as Malfoy drew level with them, and saw the exact moment that the blond heard Ron’s voice. To Harry’s surprise Malfoy immediately headed over in their direction. Huh, seemed he and Ron really did know each other.

Ron was still oblivious to everything except what he wanted to do to “Blaise-fucking-Zabini,” so he missed the moment when Malfoy came to a sudden halt in front of them, missed how at the word “fucking” coming from Ron's mouth Malfoy’s eyes bugged out of his head as if he’d just received a severe blow to the head.

Harry didn’t miss it though. Harry didn’t miss _any_ of it, and he had to fake a cough to cover the sudden urge to laugh out loud. He put his hand on Ron’s arm so he wouldn’t walk into Malfoy (and he didn’t miss the way Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at that either).

Ron stopped walking and looked enquiringly at Harry. Harry nodded his head at Malfoy, and Ron turned to see the blond in front of him. “Oh hey, Malfoy,” he smiled brightly.

“Hey,” Malfoy, shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stared down at the floor.

And this. This. Was quite possibly the funniest moment of Harry’s life. Because this time, in the harsh lights of the mall, there was no mistaking the deep blush that spread rapidly across Malfoy’s face and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Harry rubbed his hand under his nose and pressed his thumb against his lips; laughing at this point really wasn’t an option.

“So, how’s things?” Ron asked.

Malfoy looked up and smiled shyly, “Good,” he replied, softly. “Really good.”

He and Ron both turned sharply to look at Harry, who was coughing loudly into his hand.

“Sorry,” Harry said, “frog in my throat. I’ll just, erm,” he turned and pointed towards a nearby drugstore, “go and buy some water.” And he walked away quickly, shoulders shaking.

When he got back, Ron and Malfoy were sitting on a bench, Ron talking animatedly, while Malfoy looked on in rapt fascination.

Fucking. Hilarious.

Harry took a last swallow from his bottle of water, wiped the smirk from his face and walked over.

“Hey, you ready to go, Ron?” He kicked at Ron’s outstretched feet, earning a glare from Malfoy.

Ron looked up. “Oh, you’re back,” he said cheerfully.

“Yes,” Harry said, looking pointedly at Malfoy. “I’m back.” He knew it was mean but this was fun. Hey, and look, Malfoy was definitely acknowledging Harry’s existence now.

Ron stood up and gave Malfoy an awkward little wave. “So, guess I’ll see you around,” he said, with a final nod.

Malfoy smiled up at him. “Yeah, see you around.”

Ron nudged Harry in his side. “Come on then, loser.” And he started walking towards the exit.

Harry paused long enough to give Malfoy a smug, little wave of his own. Wow. Malfoy had certainly embraced the culture of his adopted country. Nice finger.

Harry threw his arm around Ron’s shoulder and pulled him tight against his side. He grinned widely at the unmistakable “Fucker” he heard mumbled at his back. Life was sweet. He looked up at Ron, who was frowning down at him.

“Um, Harry. What the fuck are you doing?”

Harry shrugged, unapologetically, “I have no idea, Ron. No idea.” And he steered his bemused friend through the automatic doors.

~~~

They caught one of the university buses back to the dorms. Harry was relieved that it was mostly empty at this time on a Friday afternoon, less people to overhear their conversation (they claimed it was "the accent"’ but frankly Harry thought they were just a bunch of nosy bastards).

“So,” he said, looking pointedly at Ron. “How long?”

Ron gave him a puzzled look, then peered around the interior of the bus. “About 35/40 foot?” he replied, with a confused shrug.

Harry shook his head. Fucking oblivious much. “Not the bloody bus, you prat. How long have you and Malfoy… you know.” And he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

Ron looked at him, clearly even more confused now. “You _know_ what, Harry? Talked? Recognised each other? Thought you were a moron? What?”

Harry was torn between laughing and banging his head against the seat in front. Ron didn’t know. He really, really didn’t know. Jesus, you couldn’t write this stuff. This was pure fucking gold.

“Never mind,” he said, weakly. “So… party?”

They spent the rest of the ride talking about the upcoming party.

~~~

Sadly, Ron’s good mood had long disappeared by the time the night of the party arrived.

Harry thought he had a pretty good idea why.

When they’d got back to the dorm the day before, Ron had received a phone call from his friends back home. There’d been a birthday party, and some genius had had the idea to call Ron. There’d been lots of good-natured shouting down the phone from various drunken friends and Ron had laughed and shouted back with the best of them. But then he’d had to hang up. Harry had never seen Ron so quiet and he'd wandered back to his own room soon afterwards.

Harry had hoped that a decent night’s sleep might have restored Ron’s good humour, but Ron still looked thoroughly miserable when he shuffled into Harry’s room that night. Harry bit his tongue and prayed for alcohol (seriously, this kid could make Marvin The Paranoid Android look like Happy the Happy Clown from Happyville).

It wasn't as if Harry didn’t sympathise, he did. He even suffered the occasional pang of homesickness himself. But he’d never had the sort of intense friendships that Ron clearly enjoyed with his friends. Harry made friends easily enough and he had plenty of them, but he just didn’t miss them in the same way Ron did.

Maybe, it was because Harry had never had a best friend, had never known that level of friendship. Well, until now. And that was another thing. Lately, he’d been wondering just who the fuck was going to help him out of _his_ funk, when he had to say goodbye to Ron. He’d never tell the ginger git, but Ron was pretty much the best friend Harry had ever had (well, why else would Harry have put up with the miserable bastard for so long?).

And now, Harry got this horrible cold pull in his stomach whenever he thought of their exchange year coming to an end (which probably meant he really _was_ the thirteen year old girl Ron was so fond of calling him).

Fuck it.

Harry stood up and pointed at Ron. “You! Fucking cheer up. Now.” And he strode from the room, pulled along by the siren call of brain numbing amounts of alcohol.

They didn’t exactly have far to go. The party was in their building, one block over and two flights up. Harry had been invited by Mike, who lived on the party floor and who Harry knew from his Media class.

As they stepped out of the lift, their ears were assaulted by the music blaring out of two speakers at the end of the hall. There was no bar in sight, which caused some momentary panic, but then Harry noticed that most of the people milling around were carrying cups of beer. Harry let out a relieved puff of breath and walked with renewed hope, towards the large banner proclaiming “Registration Here”. Mike had told Harry that it was going to be a "classroom" party. Harry had no idea what that was, but frankly as long there was alcohol involved, he was game for anything.

Mike was sitting behind the makeshift desk, under the banner. He was writing people’s names on labels - “So your classmates know who you are,” he said with a grin as he handed one to Harry. “Glad you could make it,” he added. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Ron,” Harry said, as he stuck the label on his chest. “Ron, this is Mike.”

Ron nodded solemnly at Mike. Harry let out a frustrated sigh and slapped Ron upside the head. “Fucking play nice you sulky git,” he told him, sternly.

Ron frowned at Harry, rubbing the back of his head, but he did turn back to Mike and forced a smile. “Hi, Mike. I am super happy to meet you and totally stoked to be here at your delightful little shindig.”

Mike laughed loudly, shaking his head. “You’re right, Harry, he is a little shit,” he paused, raking his eyes slowly up Ron’s body, “or well, maybe not _that_ little.” He held out Ron’s name label with a wink.

Ron looked at him wide-eyed, frozen in place, until Harry nudged him. “Come on, Ron, take the label, he doesn’t bite.” Harry laughed, mockingly.

Ron reached out nervously and took the label, stepping back from the table as he fixed it to his shirt, eyeing Mike warily all the while.

Harry shook his head, then turned back to Mike. “So, what next?” he asked, dearly hoping it involved beer.

Mike inclined his head towards the guy sitting next to him. “Adam here, will fix you up with your class assignments and your timetable. Here.” He handed Harry two plastic cups and a sharpie. "Write your names on these. Keg’s in the last room down the hall, help yourselves, then move on to your first class.” He grinned up at them both. “Work hard, get good grades and make me proud boys.”

Harry finished writing his name on the cup and handed the pen to Ron. “We will try our very best dad.”

Mike nodded solemnly. “That’s all a father could ask for son.” And with a wide grin he looked over Harry’s shoulder and shouted, “next!”

Harry moved along to stand in front of Adam. Ron put the pen back on to the desk carefully, clearly trying to avoid drawing Mike’s attention his way again, and stepped up next to Harry.

Adam handed them a slip of paper each, then waved them off without a word.

Harry looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.

 _Class: Remedial_ (Harry frowned and turned back to look reproachfully at Adam).

_Homeroom: 101_

_Period 1: Chemistry; Period 2: English; Period 3: Calculus; Period 4: History; Period 5: Art; Period 6: French_.

Huh. Harry really hoped tests weren’t involved. Or homework.

Having filled their cups with beer from the keg, they made their way to Room 101, Harry casting Adam a very pointed look as he walked past (and being just as pointedly ignored). When they walked into the room they were greeted by a tall, thin bloke wearing a mortar board and a long billowing academic gown (the overall effect was somewhat marred by the fact that the cap and gown were in a neon pink. Still, Harry appreciated the effort).

“Good evening, class,” the bloke said in the worst English accent Harry had ever heard. “My name is Professor Blackinton. Please take a seat and I will hand out your test papers.”

Harry exchanged a slightly worried look with Ron at the word "test", but felt cheered by the sight of an opened bottle of tequila and four shot glasses on a nearby table. It was only once he and Ron were seated at one of the four seats (a bean bag, an ergonomically correct stool - and how embarrassing was it that it took Harry three tries before he was facing the right way - a giant orange cushion and an inflatable dolphin), that Harry had a chance to take in their other classmates.

The taller of the two - “Viktor, with a ‘k’,” he informed them solemnly, in a heavily accented, deep voice - was hot in a dark, brooding, probably-serial-killer kind of way. He scowled menacingly at the test questions as Blackinton handed them out, and Harry’s hopes for a fun evening took a definite nosedive. He turned desperate eyes to the fourth member of their class. And had to fight the urge to cry. This one may have been smaller and less intimidating but he was also broodier and looked like he ate puppies. He was currently glaring fiercely at Ron.

Well, weren’t they a happy bunch of campers.

Ron leant across to Harry and muttered, “Definitely one of your more fucked up ideas, Harry. Cheers.”

Before Harry could reply, Blackinton cleared his throat and frowned over at them. “No talking in class boys.” He broke into a wide grin. “Well, not until teacher leaves the room,” and he waggled his eyebrows in a most disturbing manner.

“Right,” Blackinton continued. “Write your names on the top of your answer sheets.”

When they had all finished and put down their pencils, Blackinton walked between their seats checking that they had carried out his instructions correctly. He paused in front of Small and Broody. Picking up the sheet of paper, he held it closer his eyes going comically wide. “Poliakoff. Really?” He looked down at the scowling boy, “Fuck, dude, your parents must really fucking hate you.”

Poliakoff reached out and snatched the paper back. “That,” he spat, “is my family name. You do not need to know my given name.”

Blackinton put his hand in front of his mouth. “Oops, my bad.” He winked at the others.

Harry and Ron both laughed, and Harry was relieved to see even Viktor cracked a small smile.

Blackinton walked over to the table holding the tequila and Harry automatically sat up straighter.

“You’ve all done very well,” Blackinton told them, as he poured the tequila into the shot glasses. “Now, I could give you all a gold star but I figure you might prefer something else.”

He picked up one glass and, with the bottle in his other hand, carried it over to Poliakoff. “Here,” he said to the still scowling boy. “You should go first.”

Poliakoff took the glass and threw the drink down his throat as if he had been issued with a personal challenge. He wiped off his lips with the back of his hand before holding the empty glass out to Blackinton but Blackinton just shook his head and poured him another shot.

“Huh-uh,” Blackinton said, with a little shake of his head. “You’re going to need twice as much as everyone else if we’re going to kill that bug in your ass.” And he turned and walked back to the table.

The others all burst out laughing, even Viktor, and Harry thought perhaps it might not be a total wash-out after all. Poliakoff looked like he might be about to throw the glass at Blackinton’s head but then seemed to think better of it. After a quick glance to where Viktor and Ron were smiling at each other over their own now empty glasses, he drank down the second shot and glared around at everyone.

Before they left the homeroom, Blackinton explained that for the rest of the evening they would be expected to act like mature, responsible members of the illustrious student body they now represented. This, he went on, would require them to answer all the questions on the sheet to the very best of their ability, while also giving great care and attention to the even more important task of getting completely shitfaced.

“Don’t let me down now boys,” he told them as they left, giving each of them a hard slap on the arse as they passed him by.

Braced by his shot of tequila and Blackinton’s inspiring words, Harry felt more than equal to the task that lay ahead, and he set off eagerly for Chemistry 101.

~~~

“What were King Harold’s last words at the Battle of Hastings?” Ron read out the question in a slightly slurred voice. He was sitting on the floor, his shoulder pressed up against Viktor, who was slumped next to him. Harry was sitting cross legged in front of them. Polly was in the chair in the corner, arms crossed, frowning down at them (it had to be said, he really hadn’t taken to his new nickname).

Harry was feeling very pleased. He’d rocked the first three tests. Which was really cool because if you got the question right, then you got to take three shots of whatever drink had been put out in that particular classroom.

Mind you, he wasn’t fully convinced that all his answers had actually been right. He frowned in thought. Like in English class, although he had never read Romeo & Juliet, he had a nagging feeling that the next line after, “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” probably wasn’t actually “Down here, the ladder broke.” But he’d received a big tick and three shots of JD, so maybe, maybe, he actually knew a lot more Shakespeare than he thought.

“Right,” Ron leant forward and waggled the test paper in his face. “Pay attention, Harry.”

Harry looked up and over at Ron and Viktor. His eyes were drawn to where Viktor was resting his hand on Ron’s thigh. That was interesting.

“The options are,” Ron cleared his throat and sat up straighter (Harry noticed Viktor’s hand slid a few inches higher) “a) “Make sure those bastards from Bayeux get my good side”; b) “If Monty Python make a film about this, don’t let Cleese play me”; or c) Watch where you’re pointing that arrow, you’ll have somebody’s eye out in a minute”.

Ha. Harry knew his history, he wasn’t going to be fooled by those other silly made up answers. With his tongue peeping out as he concentrated, he carefully wrote ‘c’ on his answer sheet, underlined it three times, then eyed the half empty bottle of vodka on the table hopefully.

~~~

Harry wanted to die.

He was never drinking again.

Ever.

He rolled over and puked into the wastepaper bin someone had kindly left on his pillow.

Clearly he was not ready to be up and about yet.

He carefully - spilled vomit was nobody’s friend - placed the bin onto the floor next to his bed before throwing the covers back over his head and turning over with a groan, the room shifting and spinning behind his closed eyelids.

~~~

When he woke up a few hours later, he felt considerably better but that didn’t stop him from leaping on the bottle of water and packet of Advil some _saint_ had left on his bedside table. About half-way through the water, he noticed that the bin had been emptied and cleaned out too. There was a post-it stuck to the rim.

_Dude, you owe me BIG time!_

_Jon_

He did, he really, really did. Harry started to nod his head but the ice pick stabbing into his brain caused him to quickly reconsider the notion.

It took another hour before he felt sufficiently revived to attempt to make his way along the hall to see how Ron was faring. Blaise opened the door.

“You here to view the body?” he asked with a grin.

Harry could only manage a feeble wave in response but Blaise stepped aside and let him in anyway.

While it was true that Blaise was an annoying git with many strange and unusual habits (if you believed what Ron said anyway) what he also was, was the owner of an awesome coffee machine. And he was willing to share.

The tempting smell eventually even coaxed Ron from under the covers and by the time Blaise had made a second pot Ron was feeling human enough to actually talk to Harry.

“So, um, good party last night?” Harry asked Ron. He knew he sounded uncertain, but the thing was, while he was fairly sure that they’d had a good time (what he could remember), Ron’s mood swings lately had been so erratic that Harry really couldn’t be sure what sort of response he was going to get.

Ron’s face split into a huge grin, then, his hand shot up to his head and he winced in pain. “Fuck. What was in that punch, Harry?”

Harry grimaced in sympathy. The punch had definitely delivered a, well, _punch_. It had been served at their "graduation ceremony" at the end of the evening and Harry suspected it contained all the dregs of alcohol left over from the classrooms. But he didn’t really want to dwell on the subject, his stomach already beginning to protest the memory.

“Yeah, I feel your pain, Ron,” he said instead.

Ron settled back on his pillows, pulling his cup of coffee to his chest. He smiled at Harry. “Good night though, Harry,” he said happily.

“Yeah?” Harry grinned back at him. He felt ridiculously pleased that he’d been the one responsible for getting Ron to finally go to a party and that his friend had actually enjoyed it.

“Yeah,” Ron said nodding carefully.

They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, sipping at their coffee.

“So,” Harry started waiting until Ron looked up before continuing. “Viktor.”

Ron immediately ducked his head and blushed. Harry would have punched his arms triumphantly in the air if it wasn’t for the cup of hot coffee (or the fact that his head might fall off).

“You guys seemed to get on very well.” He continued after Ron had been made to squirm uncomfortably for the requisite amount of time.

Ron looked up smiling, face still flushed. “Yeah, he was a good bloke.” His eyes lit up suddenly. “Better than his bloody room-mate.”

Harry cringed. “Fuck, don’t remind me,” he agreed.

Poliakoff had been a nightmare. He hadn’t stopped scowling all night, getting progressively more obnoxious as the evening had gone on. He’d taken an immediate dislike to Ron, which now that Harry thought about it, had seemed to intensify the more attention Viktor had paid to Ron. A horrible thought suddenly darted into his head.

“Ooh, you don’t think him and Viktor…?” He pulled a face.

Ron looked at him confused for a moment before his face screwed up in disgust. “Eew, no! Urgh, Harry, what a thought. No, I’m pretty sure that horrible little shit is straight.”

Harry noticed that Ron didn’t make the same assertion regarding Viktor. He grinned into his coffee.

~~~

A few days later, Harry stepped out of the lift and instead of turning right to go to his own room, he turned left and walked over to Ron’s room.

He knew Ron had met Viktor (and Poliakoff - “the bastard tags along like a bad smell, Harry!”) for coffee a few times since the party, and that the previous night Viktor had invited Ron over to his room to watch a dvd. Harry was _not_ a thirteen year old girl and therefore was definitely not making his way to Ron’s room to find out how it had gone.

Not at all.

But he had suddenly realised that they hadn’t yet decided what they were going to wear for Halloween, and now seemed as good a time as any to discuss it, and oh God, he really was a thirteen old girl…

He was just about to turn the corner onto Ron’s side of the building, when he heard voices in the hall ahead.

“Take the coffee, Draco, and stop being a prick.”

That was Blaise’s voice.

“Oh, well, as you put it so nicely.”

And that, yeah, that was definitely Malfoy.

Harry didn’t even know those two knew each other. Huh.

Harry pressed himself up against the wall and peeked around the corner.

The fuck. Malfoy had no clothes on. Well, okay no _outer_ clothes. He was sitting in his boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, propped up against the wall right next to Ron’s room. He had a cup in his hand and by the looks of things was sipping sullenly from it. Blaise was standing in the doorway to the room drinking from his own cup.

Well, there’s something you didn’t see every day.

Harry ducked back, not wanting to be seen, and decided to just listen. It wasn’t eavesdropping, it was intelligence gathering. Which yes, granted, probably made more sense in a war situation, but, well, Harry had recently began to suspect Malfoy of harbouring certain feelings for Ron. That meant anything Malfoy said, or did, could directly effect Harry’s best friend. So fuck it. Call it what you liked but he _was_ listening.

“I’ve already told you, Draco. Ron has a class now. He won’t be back for at least another hour.”

Malfoy didn’t reply.

“I don’t know why you’re even here.” Blaise’s voice had taken on a teasing tone. “I would have thought that by now you would know his timetable inside out.”

There was a _pfft_ of disgust, that Harry assumed had come from Malfoy.

“I’m admitting nothing. But if you think me ingenious enough to know his timetable, Blaise, then, perhaps I’m also ingenious enough to know when certain classes have been cancelled.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open just as he heard Blaise snort out a laugh.

Bloody hell.

He crept back along the hall to his own room.

~~~

“So, I figured you’d be back early, you know, after your text this morning saying your history class had been cancelled.” Harry had decided that subtle was the way to go.

Ron looked up from his sandwich (they were eating lunch in Ron’s kitchen). “Oh, I decided to stay behind after my Literature and Psyche class to talk to Professor Toro.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “How’d that go?”

Ron popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and wiped his hands on his napkin. Harry waited patiently for him to finish eating (it gave him longer to come up with a way to introduce Malfoy into the conversation).

“It was good,” Ron finally answered. “Toro’s a nice bloke and he didn’t laugh at me when I told him I didn’t understand a fucking word he said.”

Harry laughed. “I hope you worded it slightly differently,” he said.

Ron grinned, “I may have left out the swearing, but I also left him in no doubt that I am completely and utterly lost in that class.”

He sighed and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Take today, there I was nodding along happily, agreeing with what he was saying and feeling pretty good for actually knowing what he was talking about for once.”

Ron slumped back in his seat. “Then, he suddenly says, ‘oh, and of course, you all got that it was a dream.’ And I’m sitting there thinking what the fuck? No, I did _not_ bloody get that it was a fucking dream! Why would I? There was no mention of anyone being asleep for a fucking start!”

(Harry was relieved that Ron had chosen to leave out all the swearing when he’d talked with Toro; the guy might have been laidback, but there were limits).

Ron brushed his hands through his hair and sighed. “I swear, Harry, some of that stuff is just _wrong_.”

Harry nodded sympathetically. “What did Toro say?” He asked.

Ron looked up and smiled. “He was great,” he said, sounding happier. “Told me not to sweat it so much. He said the reason why the rest of the class seemed to know so much about the psychological angle, was that most of them had been in therapy for years.”

Harry laughed.

“I know,” Ron said, grinning. “How cool is that? He’s probably right too. I’m easily the youngest in the class, all the others have a least ten/fifteen years on me. He lent me this as well.” And he reached into his messenger bag and brought out a thin paperback book.

Harry took it from him and looked at the front cover. “Freud For Beginners,” he read out loud.

“Yeah,” Ron said nodding. “He said not to take most of the stuff in it too seriously - he reckons Freud had some serious issues of his own - but that it would help explain some of the basic principles and terminology.”

“Have you read any of it yet?” Harry asked, flipping through the pages.

“Nah, I’ll do it later,” Ron replied, taking the book from Harry and putting it back in his messenger bag. “You want another coffee, Harry?” he asked, as he got up from the table to re-fill his own cup from Blaise’s machine.

“No, I’m fine,” Harry answered absently. He was thinking of Malfoy again, unsure of how much to tell Ron. He waited for Ron to sit back down before asking as casually as he could, “so, um, did you let anyone else know that your class was cancelled this morning?”

Ron immediately turned bright red and ducked his head.

Ah ha.

Ron took a sip of his coffee before mumbling softly, “I may have texted Viktor.”

Oh. Well, then. That was to be expected Harry supposed. The two of them were practically dating. Or, well, they would be if Poliakoff ever left them alone long enough.

Ron had told Harry earlier that the cosy evening he had hoped for the previous night had been ruined, yet again, by the unwanted presence of Viktor’s horribly annoying room-mate. The freak just seemed unwilling to leave Viktor’s side, at least if Ron was anywhere in sight.

Maybe he _was_ gay after all, and hopelessly in love with Viktor (despite Poliakoff’s constant assertions that he had a girlfriend waiting for him back in Bulgaria). Maybe he was just jealous of anyone else getting laid while his girlfriend was stuck on the other side of the world (or wherever Bulgaria was, Harry sucked at Geography).

Whatever the reason for Poliakoff’s behaviour, Harry found himself getting angry with Viktor. Seriously, why didn’t he just tell the bloke to fuck off. Or surely he could ditch him for a few hours if he really wanted to. Harry was starting to feel worried for Ron; what if Viktor was just stringing him along and actually had no intention of seeing this thing through? He swore if Viktor hurt Ron, then, Harry would just have to break him (which given the bloke’s size might prove problematic but Harry was willing to give it a try).

“So, why didn’t you guys go for coffee or something?” He asked Ron now. It had seemed like the perfect opportunity for Ron and Viktor to finally have spent some time together; Poliakoff almost certainly would have had a class of his own to attend. Why hadn’t Viktor seized the chance that's what Harry wanted to know?

“Oh,” Ron shrugged, “Viktor had an Engineering class.”

Right. Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He would need to get a hold of Viktor’s timetable to check that out. Perhaps he could ask Malfoy how one went about obtaining copies of other people’s timetables…which reminded him.

“So you didn’t text Malfoy then?” He blurted, wincing almost immediately after the words were out of his mouth (so much for subtle).

Ron looked up from his coffee and cocked his head to one side. “Well, yeah, I think I did text him now that you mention it. Why?”

“Um,” Harry tried to look nonchalant. “No reason. I, erm, just might have overheard him discussing your cancelled class with Blaise.” So Ron and Malfoy _texted_ now. Huh. Harry hadn’t even been sure that they’d exchanged numbers.

“Oh, okay.” Ron didn’t sound surprised in the least, either at Malfoy and Blaise knowing each other, or the fact that they might have been talking about him. Now Harry was really intrigued.

“I didn’t know Blaise even knew Malfoy,” he said, trying for casual again but probably sounding closer to annoyed.

Ron frowned at him. “They’re actually really good friends, Harry. They’ve known each other for years.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ve said this before but I really don’t understand what your problem is with Malfoy. He’s a good bloke, Harry. I don’t get why you don’t like him.”

Harry sighed too. This was an old argument. The Draco Malfoy Harry knew seemed so completely different to the Draco Malfoy Ron knew. Harry had stopped even trying to convince Ron that Malfoy was an obnoxious git but sometimes, like now, he just couldn’t seem to hide his own dislike for the bloke.

“It’s not that I don’t like him" - well, that was true, the feeling was much more akin to hate - "so much that _he_ doesn’t like _me_.” Harry felt that he was making a fair point, after all, Malfoy had made no attempt to be nice to _him_.

Ron shook his head and stood up. “You’re just being paranoid, Harry. You think everyone dislikes you.” He put his cup in the sink and turned to start cleaning out the coffee machine (Blaise was very clear about that; they were allowed to use it, as long as they cleaned it afterward).

Harry pouted at Ron’s back. That was unfair. Harry didn’t think _everyone_ disliked him - some people just ignored him.

“Well, I still think it’s odd that he sits outside your door in just his underwear,” he said in a rush (once again missing subtle by a country mile; Harry had to concede that he probably wasn’t very good at subtle).

“What?” Ron turned around slowly, looking slightly horrified and Harry finally felt vindicated. At last, he’d got through to the stupid git. _Finally_ , Ron was going to realise what a freak Malfoy was and admit that Harry’s instincts had been right all along. Harry felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Exactly.” Harry said with a self-satisfied smile. “I saw him,” he went on. “He was sitting right next to your door, wearing only his boxer shorts and a t-shirt. In the middle of the day.” He nodded his head as if to underline the point.

Ron started to laugh. “Oh, Harry, you freak.”

What. How was Harry the freak? But before he could get a word of protest out Ron continued.

“Harry, he was only doing his laundry.”

Huh.

Ron shook his head, still chuckling. “Or have you forgotten that my room is right opposite the laundry room? Malfoy always sits outside while his clothes are in the machine. He told me that he doesn’t trust people not to steal them so he prefers to wait for them to be done, rather than going back to his room.”

Harry pouted again (he did that a lot where Malfoy was concerned). Okay, so that was one explanation that he hadn’t considered. He paused thinking for a minute. But that didn’t explain the underwear.

“But that doesn’t explain the underwear!” He shouted at Ron.

Ron stopped laughing and looked slightly hurt all of a sudden. “I really wish you weren’t so determined to think badly of him, Harry,” he said softly.

And Harry suddenly felt guilty. And confused; he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to accomplish anymore. What did it matter if Malfoy liked Ron? Or if Ron never figured out that he was being stalked?

“Did it ever occur to you that Malfoy might have been down to his last clean t-shirt and boxers, Harry?” Ron asked before walking out of the kitchen.

And well, while Harry may have been feeling slightly bad for only thinking the worst of Malfoy, he definitely called bullshit on that one. Malfoy certainly had his reasons for sitting half-naked outside Ron’s door but running out of clean clothes definitely wasn’t one of them.

~~~

The next day was Saturday and Harry was planning on sleeping all day, or, until his stomach told him to get up. So it was a bit of a shock when he was woken up by the sound of someone slamming open his door and shouting his name loudly into his ear.

Fuck.

Harry sat up and squinted blearily at the figure looming menacingly over his bed. Was that Ron?

“Harry-fucking-Potter,” he screamed into Harry’s confused face. “I am going to fucking kill you.”

Harry scratched his head and frowned. “Um. Why?” He asked plaintively. He felt he at least deserved an explanation before he died.

“This!” Ron cried.

And Harry suddenly noticed that he had a book in his hand that he proceeded to wave in Harry’s face. Harry grimaced and glanced at his clock - 9.20am - urgh, it was definitely too early for this.

“Ron,” he said in the most reasonable voice he could muster. “What the fuck are you talking about? Or, no, sorry. Actually, what I meant to say there was - fuck off and let me sleep, you selfish git.”

“Selfish, Harry?” Ron’s voice had grown rather strident. “Selfish? I’ll give you fucking selfish you complete and utter tosser!”

Something was definitely up.

Harry sighed as he watched Ron pace up and down in front of his bed. He had a funny feeling his sleep was over for the day.

~~~

When Jon walked in half an hour later, Harry was lying on his bed hugging his pillow, giggling hysterically, while Ron was sitting on the floor, propped up against Jon’s bed, laughing like a donkey.

Jon raised both eyebrows. “Did I miss something?” he asked with a grin.

When he had finally recovered enough to talk, Ron took a deep breath and announced, “I need chocolate.” He stood up. “And Dr Pepper.”

Harry nodded his agreement between sniggers.

Jon shrugged. “I could handle some chocolate,” he said and followed them out the door.

They took the lift down to the ground floor where they proceeded to raid the vending machines that lined one wall of the T.V. lounge. When they were all satisfied with their purchases, they slumped into the nearest chairs.

“Okay,” Jon said once they had finished popping cans and opening packets. “Which one of you is going to explain the giggle fit I just witnessed?”

Harry and Ron exchanged smirks. Ron threw a peanut M&M at Harry’s head. “That,” he said, “was caused by Harry’s total disregard for my pain.”

“Fuck off,” Harry replied, picking up the sweet from his lap and throwing it at Ron’s nose. “I was _embracing_ your pain, particularly the more comedic aspects of it.”

They both started giggling again.

“Yeah,” Jon said. “I’m really going to need more than that.”

Ron stopped laughing and looked at Harry pointedly.

Harry sighed. “Okay, I guess it’s down to me. Jon, remember when I told you about The Big Gay Journal Freak Out of last week, and how I had to jump in and save Ron’s arse, whilst also managing to make him look cool and interesting to Professor Toro,” he paused to place his hand to the side of his mouth and stage whispered, “that’s the one he’s got the big gay crush on.”

“Hey!” Ron sounded ridiculously offended. Harry ignored him.

“Well, Toro recently lent Ron a book to help him with his class.” Harry started to snigger. “Only the dream interpretation chapter proved a bit of an eye-opener to our Ron here.”

“That’s a fucking understatement,” Ron blurted out sitting forward in his chair. “Jon, do you know what Freud thought _knives_ represented in dreams?”

Jon was already laughing so Ron guessed he probably had a pretty good idea.

“Right. And did you also know, that Harry apparently spent his entire teenage years dreaming about grabbing 'hold of', or 'poking' other people with his ‘knife’? Bloody pervert!” He threw another M&M at Harry, who caught it this time and popped it in his mouth with a wink.

“In fairness, Ron,” Jon said, still laughing. “I think most teenaged boys spend their entire time dreaming about their ‘knives’ and exactly where they’d like to 'poke' them.”

“Yeah?” Ron said, clearly warming to his subject. “Do they also dream about crashing through windows on a regular basis? Because according to Freud that means that Harry is not only a sex fiend, but also a lesbian!”

Harry’s grin fell away and he started to frown. “Hey, that’s not fair. Like a lot of teenagers I was confused about my sexuality. I thought I was straight, so couldn’t understand why I kept wanting to, you know,” he blushed, “play with other people’s ‘knives’.” (He honestly had no idea where the window jumping came into it).

Jon threw his empty can at Harry’s head. “Okay, seriously guys. I really need you to both stop talking about people’s 'knives' and what they do, or don’t, want to do with them.”

All three started to giggle again. Harry felt comforted; at least he wasn’t the only thirteen year old girl here.

“So, okay,” Jon said, a moment later, still grinning. “I get how hilarious it is that Harry is quite probably a lesbian, but what I don’t understand, is why you’re so pissed about it, Ron? Well, unless you’re harbouring certain feelings towards him…” He smirked evilly.

“Urgh, Jon, you sick fuck. That would be like committing incest.” Ron’s face was screwed up in disgust.

Harry was torn between feeling deeply offended that Ron found the thought of being with him so abhorrent, and strangely touched that Ron had also just implied, that he now looked upon Harry as a brother (or possibly a sister given recent revelations).

“No,” Ron continued, looking sourly over at Harry. “The reason I want to hit Harry in the head. Repeatedly. With a spade. Is the fact that the dumb fuck wrote the details of all his freaky teenage dreams in _my_ journal. The journal that is currently in the hands of Professor Toro. A man, whom I would like to point out, that is more than a little conversant with Sigmund Freud’s theories on such matters. I will _never_ be able to look him in the eye again.”

Jon burst out laughing again. “Oops,” he gasped out looking over at Harry.

Of course, that set Harry off again.

“Never mind, Ron,” Jon said later, when they’d all recovered a small modicum of control. “Perhaps, Toro will offer to personally help you resolve your sexual conflict.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Ron had no more M&Ms left, so he threw the empty packet instead. It just wasn’t the same.

~~~

  
Harry peered through the haze that hung in the air between them. “Jon, shouldn’t you be gone by now?”

Jon pouted from where he lay on his bed. “Harry are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked sounding hurt.

Harry shook his head fervently. “No, no, mate. Honestly. It’s been brilliant hanging out with you. We should do it more often.” He nodded emphatically.

Jon smiled widely. “Why, thank you, Harry. I, too, have enjoyed hanging with you guys. And yes, we should do it more often.” He lit the freshly rolled joint in his hand and took a hit.

Jon was great. Harry knew this to be true. He used to think most of Jon’s awesomeness came from the fact that he was hardly ever there - what else could one wish for from a room-mate (ask Ron) - but now he was beginning to think that perhaps it went deeper than that. Harry drew in a deep hit from the joint Jon had just handed to him and nodded slowly. Much deeper.

“I’ve got it!” Ron sat up suddenly from where he’d been lying on the floor. He turned to look at Harry. “I’ve got it, Harry. What we can wear for Halloween.” His eyes were shining with inspiration (or it could have been the weed).

Harry wasn’t even aware they’d been trying to think of something to wear for Halloween, so Ron’s announcement came as a bit of a surprise. Personally he’d have probably just gone with the tried and tested white sheet with eye holes. But then there was that thing were they didn’t always follow the whole scary theme here. Harry had found that very odd. Wasn’t that the whole point of Halloween? But no, so far he’d been told by various people that they were going as a surgeon, a cop, Zorro, Marilyn Monroe (he thought Mike was very brave) and a hobo. Where were the witches? Where were the ghouls?

Ron was standing up now, flapping his arms about in his enthusiasm. “We’ll go as loud American tourists. We’ll wear dreadful checked jackets over obnoxious shirts, gaudy Bermuda shorts and white socks with open-toed sandals. We’ll carry cameras around our necks and smoke cigars. And. And. We’ll keep pointing at everything and saying how much bigger they are at home.” He looked up triumphantly. “It will be hilarious, Harry.”

Harry stared at him wide eyed and speechless.

THEY. WERE. GOING. TO. DIE.

He dared a glance in Jon’s direction. Jon stood up a little unsteadily and walked over to Ron. Harry watched in morbid fascination and thought about closing his eyes. And to think it had all been going so well.

“Dude,” Jon said to Ron, “that is a fucking awesome idea.” And his face broke into a huge grin as he patted Ron on the back.

Oh, well. That was unexpected.

Forty minutes later, they were in a thrift store down town. For the princely sum of $12.80, Harry had purchased a jacket that hurt his eyes, shorts that would scare Chuck Norris, and a shirt that would probably scar him for life. He and Jon were currently trying to persuade Ron to buy a pair of Jesus sandals. Ron was being a total princess about it, complaining about his precious feet having to wear second-hand shoes (Harry was very grateful that they had no shoes in his size).

In the end they all agreed to chip in and buy Ron some insoles from the pharmacy next door and assured that his toes wouldn’t be turning green and dropping off anytime soon, Ron finally bought the bloody sandals.

By mutual agreement they decided to go to Port o' Subs afterward. It was weird. For lunch they’d eaten a huge frozen pizza each, washed down with several bags of cheetos, and yet apparently they were all starving again. Must have been all the fresh air or something.

They ordered huge sandwiches stuffed with everything and still managed a couple of enormous cookies each for dessert. That was definitely some _good_ fucking fresh air.

When they got back to the dorm, Ron and Harry collapsed tiredly on Harry’s bed. Jon had headed back to his friends’ apartment after dinner.

They spent the rest of the evening worrying about exactly how many people were going to want to kill them come Halloween.

With the judicious application of beer it didn’t take them too long to come to the conclusion that it was all Jon’s fault.

~~~

The next day, Viktor invited Ron to a Halloween party.

“You’re coming too.” Ron informed Harry later, in a no nonsense voice.

“But -” Harry started to say.

Ron held up a hand, then waved the second-hand sandals in Harry’s face. And well, Harry really had nowhere to go with that.

Jon tried to reassure them several times over the next few days, that their outfits wouldn’t offend people. “They’re ironic, Harry. Would you be offended if someone turned up dressed in a suit and wearing a bowler hat?” Harry of course had said no, but he also thought that Jon probably needed lessons in how to effectively insult a whole nation (Mike Myers could probably help him out with that).

Halloween arrived and Harry still wasn’t convinced. He was still pretty sure they were going to die. It was just a case of when and by the hand of how many. Personally Harry didn’t fancy their chances of making it as far as the lift.

Of course, the real irony about the whole thing, was that for once Ron was actually in a great mood. He’d finally got his journal back the day before from Toro and had got an A-(Toro had also winked at him and asked him out on a date, but Ron said he was fairly sure he’d been joking). He was also hoping that Viktor might finally make a move at the party and had made Harry promise to keep Poliakoff out of the way.

Harry was pleased for him. Really. But Harry also felt that he would have been better able to convey all this happiness, had he not been edging his way towards the lift, dressed as a potential punching bag. When they actually did make it to the lift without anyone attacking them, Harry couldn’t quite believe their luck. His panicked jabbing of the lift call button was interrupted by a breathy voice behind them.

“Wow.”

Harry turned to see Malfoy standing next to Ron, staring at him in awe.

Ron turned to face Malfoy. “Oh hey, Malfoy,” he smiled brightly at the other boy. Then his eyes bugged out and he gulped. “Erm,” he added unhelpfully.

He had a point.

 _Bloody hell_.

“Um, Malfoy,” Harry said trying not to stare. “What -?” He gestured wildly, trying to convey _something_. He owed it to Ron. Who had clearly lost the ability to talk.

“Oh,” Malfoy glanced down at himself and shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Yeah, it was Blaise’s idea. Apparently” - he blushed - “This is what The Chippendales wear.” He blushed even deeper. “Well, erm, at least _before_ they -” Malfoy waved his hands around and looked very uncomfortable.

Ron just looked stunned. There was a lot of leather. And skin.

Harry bit his lip and tried not to laugh. Oh dear. He had a feeling his friend may have just been run over by the clue bus. Harry started sniggering, he couldn’t help it. Luckily neither Ron or Malfoy noticed.

“But you,” Malfoy paused, gazing at Ron in wonder. “You look _amazing_.”

Harry looked at Ron. He was wearing a jacket that looked like someone had thrown up on it; a shirt that they could probably _hear_ in Mexico; the silliest shorts Harry had ever seen (apart from his own); a tatty pair of Jesus sandals and white socks.

And Malfoy was looking at him with heart eyes.

Shit.

Harry was relieved when the lift arrived. He pushed Ron into it, giving Malfoy an apologetic shrug as the doors closed. Suddenly being hunted down by a rabid mob of patriotic Americans seemed the least of his worries.

Thankfully, by the time they got to Viktor’s door, Ron seemed to have recovered the power of speech. Granted it mostly consisted of “Whoa,” “Did you -” and “Meep.” But at least he’d stopped gaping like a deranged fish.

Things pretty much went down hill from there.

~~~

As Harry and Ron had made their way over to Viktor’s side of the building, it would be fair to say that Harry had expected a certain amount of dissent to come their way (and possibly a goodly amount of violence).

What he hadn’t expected were backslaps, thumbs up, good-natured laughter and a whole new appreciation for Americans and their self-deprecating humour. And yet, that was exactly what they had got. It seemed Jon had been right after all; Harry had been extremely relieved to have been proven wrong and for the first time that night he’d actually begun to relax.

When they arrived at Viktor’s door they knocked and waited. It was opened a moment later by Viktor dressed as a Blues Brother. He immediately smiled goofily at Ron who smiled goofily back. Harry rolled his eyes behind Ron’s back. Idiots. Not that he had room to talk of course; Harry was starting to feel a bit of a prat himself, what with making all that fuss about their costumes. Really, what had he been worried about?

And, then, Poliakoff happened.

And Poliakoff’s friends.

~~~

When they got back to the dorm a couple of hours later, the party on their block was still in full swing.

Harry couldn’t help but notice Malfoy’s hopeful look when Ron walked towards him in the hall; any more than he could fail to see Malfoy’s disappointment when Ron continued to walk right on past him without so much as casting him a sideways glance.

Harry actually felt sorry for Malfoy. Which was a bit of a revelation. Seemed it was impossible to carry on hating someone who clearly thought your best friend had hung the moon. Especially when that best friend had just had his heart trampled all over.

Viktor Krum was a complete shit.

And a coward.

Because there was no way Viktor _didn’t_ want Ron. It was fucking obvious. And maybe, that was the problem.

Viktor had driven them to the party, Ron riding shotgun next to him. Harry had been stuck in the back with Poliakoff, who had spent the entire ride criticising their choice of costume and accusing them of disrespect to their host country. Which would have been slightly less ridiculous if Poliakoff hadn’t spent pretty much every moment since they'd met him slagging off all things "American".

Unfortunately, the hosts of the party and every other guest seemed to share Poliakoff’s opinion. Harry and Ron had been greeted with wide-eyed stares of horror and had swiftly been given the cold shoulder by everyone there. Actually, Harry would have preferred a few snotty comments to be honest, at least then he could have responded, made his feelings known. But unfortunately, no one had caused a scene or made a fuss, he and Ron had just found themselves completely shut out. Ignored.

If Viktor hadn’t been there then it might have been funny; they might have laughed the whole thing off and just made their way home. But Viktor _had_ been there and Harry had silently vowed to kill Jon for all his misplaced reassurance.

And then, Harry had thought that maybe it might not be such a bad thing after all. In fact, it could have been the perfect opportunity for Viktor to prove himself to Ron; all he'd had to do was stand by Ron and support him through the awkward moment. So Harry had ignored all the sour looks they had been getting from everyone else and had turned hopeful eyes to Viktor.

At which point Viktor had looked around the room at all his scowling friends and without a word or a glance at Ron, had walked away to stand on the other side of the room, turning his back on Ron and Harry. Harry had quickly looked to Ron who had been frowning in confusion at Viktor's back. Witnessing the moment that Ron had realised what had happened was one of the worst of Harry's life. He had wanted to kill Viktor. And every other bastard in the room.

Instead, Harry had quickly grabbed a couple of beers and had tried desperately to distract Ron from Viktor’s desertion and all the other cold looks they had still been getting. Frankly, he would have preferred to just get out of there as quickly as possible, but there was also a more stubborn side of him that had been damned if he was going to give the fuckers the satisfaction of thinking that they’d scared them off.

Unfortunately, things really hadn’t improved after that. Ron, clearly upset by Viktor’s behaviour, had been miserable and so it had been left to Harry to carry the conversation between them. Occasionally, Viktor had cast them a pained look, but the bastard had remained steadfastly on the other side of the room. After an hour Harry had had enough and he had called a cab and got Ron out of there.

Ron hadn’t said a word on the way back in the car and when Harry had tried to talk to him as they got into the lift, he’d just raised his hand in silent supplication and shaken his head. Harry hadn’t had the heart to push it.

Then, he'd had to watch as Ron walked past Malfoy, walked past everyone, with his head down and with his shoulders slumped and Harry had found himself damning the day he’d encouraged Ron to stop moping in his room. Some friend he’d turned out to be. Ron would have been better off without him.

Harry walked disconsolately towards the beer keg. He needed a drink.

~~~

Harry stayed up late, long after Ron had gone to bed. Jon and his friends dropped by the party and Harry shared a few drinks and a smoke or two with them. Of course, Jon asked how things had gone between Ron and Viktor, which naturally led to Harry relating the events of earlier.

Jon and his friends were awesome, calling Viktor, Poliakoff and the shower of shits that had been at the party, all sorts of horrible names and saying exactly what they’d like to do to them (none of it pretty). By the time he’d gone to bed that night, Harry had felt a lot better about the whole situation.

He had hoped to sleep in late the next day, so when someone knocked at his door early that morning he was pissed as hell. But really, why the fuck wasn’t he allowed to have a lie-in? Just fucking once would be brilliant.

He was also surprised - Ron never knocked and Jon didn’t have to. No one else ever came to his door.

Sighing heavily, Harry climbed out of bed. He winced when his head throbbed in time with his movements and made his way slowly over to open the door.

“Blaise?” Harry was shocked. Why would Blaise be at his door? Oh fuck.

“What’s happened to Ron?” he asked frantically.

Blaise snorted and pushed his way past Harry.

“Ron’s fine,” he paused and considered the ceiling for a moment. “Well, apart from walking around like someone stole his puppy. But you and I, Harry, we’re going to change all that. We,” he looked over at Harry with a huge grin on his face, “are going to be Ron’s fucking heroes."

Harry frowned. “We are?”

Blaise nodded as he settled himself on Jon’s bed. “Oh, yeah,” he said firmly.

Harry felt a little discombobulated (he briefly considered telling Blaise this, he’d always wanted a reason to say the word out loud). Why was Blaise Zabini in his room talking about heroes?

“Harry, do try to pay attention.” Blaise’s exasperated voice broke into his rattled thoughts.

Harry looked up and frowned at the boy on the bed. “Blaise what the fuck’s going on?”

Blaise grinned again. “Good question, Harry. I’m glad you asked me that,” he nodded to Harry’s bed. “Pull up a seat and I’ll tell you.”

Harry wandered back to his bed and sat slowly down. How he longed for those far-off hazy days when whole hours would go by without anyone barging into his room and talking bollocks at him. He sighed and waited for Blaise to continue.

“Look,” Blaise looked serious now, leaning forward and frowning slightly at Harry. “I heard what happened last night. And I have to say I wasn’t surprised.”

“Hey, you said you liked our costumes.” Harry said feeling a little offended.

Blaise held up his hands palms out. “I did, Harry,” he said, placatingly. “I meant I wasn’t surprised by the reaction you got at the party. I know a good few of the people that were there and they’re a bunch of stuck up bastards who wouldn’t know irony if it came up and bit them on the arse.” He frowned deeper. "None of those arseholes has a sense of humour, but even if they did, I’m sure Poliakoff had already primed them to react badly towards you both, whatever you wore.”

Harry frowned this time. “But why? I get that little shit doesn’t like us, but why turn everyone else against us too? I mean surely he knew that Viktor liked Ron?”

Blaise sat back grimacing. “Well, that’s kind of the problem. While Poliakoff isn’t the most pleasant of blokes under any circumstances, he probably wouldn’t have been quite so vile to you guys, if he hadn’t seen exactly how much Viktor liked Ron.”

Harry wasn’t particularly surprised by that; after all it was what he’d suspected himself at the very start.

“So, Poliakoff really is gay, then.” Harry nodded thoughtfully. It all made sense now.

Blaise snorted loudly. “God, no!” He paused, chuckling to himself.

Harry let out a puff of frustrated breath and threw his hands up in the air. “Okay. I fucking give up! What the hell is Poliakoff’s problem then?”

Blaise stopped laughing and looked suddenly serious. “An old one, Harry. Poliakoff’s problem is an old but sadly still all too frequent one. He’s a bigot. A homophobic bigot.”

Harry frowned in confusion. While he could easily believe that Poliakoff was a homophobic arsehole, it made no sense that he would be friends with Viktor. Unless…

“Shit. Viktor isn’t straight, is he?” Because, while that would be pretty hard to believe, what with all the inappropriate touching and blatant flirting with Ron, it would also explain an awful lot.

Again Blaise snorted but softly this time. “Oh, Harry, you really do have a gift for getting things completely and utterly wrong.”

“Hey!” Harry complained.

Blaise ignored him. “No, Viktor is definitely gay. Unfortunately, he is also so far back in the closet that Mr.Tumnus probably invites him to family reunions.”

“Fuck.” Harry was thinking about how Ron was going to react to that news (and also wondering where he was going to borrow a ladder so he could punch Viktor in the face).

“Exactly,” Blaise said with a wry smile. “But look, Harry, don’t be too hard on him.”

Harry looked up and scowled at Blaise. Viktor had acted like a complete scumbag, why wouldn’t Harry be hard on him? The shit deserved everything coming to him (even if Harry had a horrible feeling that the only thing actually coming to Viktor was having to watch as Ron cried over Harry’s broken and bloody body).

Blaise sighed. “I know you probably want to kill him for seemingly stringing Ron along, but honestly Harry I don’t believe it was like that.”

“Oh,” Harry replied sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “How was it then, Blaise? Please tell me how Viktor bloody Krum didn’t know what it was going to do to Ron when he found out that Viktor was too much of a coward to come out and admit that he liked him. Or are you going to try and tell me that he didn’t realise what he was doing. That he didn’t even realise that Ron was falling for him?” Harry was standing up now and his voice had risen with his words.

“No, Harry,” Blaise shook his head sadly. “I’m not going to claim any of that. And believe me I’m bloody angry too. I could quite cheerfully strangle Viktor for the way he’s treated Ron. But you have to understand that the world that he comes from is very different to ours. Bulgaria isn’t exactly known for its tolerance towards 'alternative' lifestyles.”

Blaise frowned. “Then there’s Poliakoff,” he practically spat the name. “They’ve been friends for years, and while I’m sure that Poliakoff knows Viktor’s true orientation, I’m equally sure that he constantly whispers poison in his ear, constantly reminding Viktor of what he’s risking, of what he’s got to lose. And always with the unspoken threat that any step out of line will be reported back home. I happen to know that without the continued support of his family, Viktor will have to give up his degree and return to Bulgaria. And believe me, Harry, if Viktor’s family find out he’s gay, then, they will most definitely withdraw their support.”

Harry sat back down on the bed and brushed his hands through his hair. “I don’t understand it though, Blaise. If Poliakoff is that much of a bigot, then how can he even be friends with Viktor? I would have thought the little homophobe would be too disgusted.”

Blaise laughed derisively. “Yeah, funny thing about that, Harry. I’ve heard that he thinks it’s ‘just a phase’.”

Harry snorted.

“I know,” Blaise rolled his eyes. “Heard that one much? Poliakoff has told some of his equally bigoted friends, that once Viktor is safely married to Poliakoff’s sister, then he’ll forget all about his ‘unnatural’ tendencies.”

“Little fucker.” Harry punched the wall behind him. He was going to murder the bastard.

Blaise nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got a few dents in my walls too.”

And something suddenly hit Harry. “You like Ron, don’t you?”

Blaise looked confused but also amused. “Well, yeah, Harry. Of course I like Ron. He’s my room mate and a good friend. I’m actually very fond of the miserable little shit.”

Harry shook his head and grinned. “You do know he thinks you hate him?”

“I said I _liked_ him, Harry. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy tormenting him.” Blaise said then started laughing.

Harry broke into chuckles of his own; he was really starting to warm to Blaise.

“Okay,” Harry said a moment later. “So tell me how you’re going to go from zero to hero and win Ron over?”

Blaise smiled. “Heroes, Harry, _heroes_. He’s going to love us _both_.”

Harry thought Ron already liked him fine, but then again after recent events maybe he could do with currying some favour. He sat up and leaned forward, ready to listen.

“Now, while I was hoping Viktor might prove worthy of Ron’s affection, I have to admit that I’ve always secretly been rooting for Draco.” Blaise stopped, looking at Harry with a sly smile on his face.

Harry’s eyebrow’s crawled into his hairline. “Really?” he said, in an awed voice. Blaise definitely had hidden depths. “He’s been stalking Ron, hasn’t he?” Harry continued triumphantly.

“Oh, yeah,” Blaise grinned. “Ever since the RA meeting the first week.”

Harry remembered that meeting, and now that he thought about it, he also remembered Malfoy walking out of his room with a snooty looking girl. It had actually been really funny. Malfoy had looked so appalled at finding all those people sitting unexpectedly outside his door. He had immediately turned around and walked right back into his room, his friend following close behind.

“But Malfoy didn’t even come to the meeting,” Harry said to Blaise.

Blaise smiled wider. “No, he didn’t stick around for the actual meeting, but he did notice Ron. The stalking started very sooner after.”

Huh. Harry was impressed, he hadn’t even noticed Malfoy looking in Ron’s direction that day. He thought about Blaise’s earlier words.

“So, your plan is to get Ron and Malfoy together?” he asked sounding worried. He really wasn’t sure that was such a great idea. Harry knew Ron liked Malfoy well enough, and from last night’s reaction to the male stripper outfit, it could well become something more, but he was also pretty sure that he didn’t want his best friend going out with Draco Malfoy.

Blaise shrugged. “At this point it’s really just helping along the inevitable. I’ve never known Draco to not get something he wanted. And well,” he grinned over at Harry. “I’ve never known him to want anything as much as he wants Ron.”

Harry frowned, noting Blaise’s surprise as he did so. Well fuck him. Why wouldn’t he be annoyed at Ron being seen as just another ‘something’ that Draco Malfoy could acquire?

“Actually, Blaise,” he said. “I think we should stay out of it. Ron can look after his own love life just fine. And maybe Malfoy will just have to get used to not always getting what he wants.”

Blaise looked nonplussed. “But, Harry, I’m pretty sure Ron wants this as much as Draco. He’s just been distracted by Viktor and not noticed his true feelings for Draco creeping up on him.”

Harry was unconvinced; Ron had only ever talked about Malfoy as a friend (well, until his eyes had nearly popped out of his head last night, but frankly Harry’s own eyeballs had made a valiant effort to leave their sockets too - it was just _that_ sort of costume). And besides, Malfoy was an obnoxious shit. Just because he turned on the charm around Ron, didn’t mean he wouldn’t turn out to be the stuck-up little tit that Harry knew and loathed. Ron could do so much better.

“Yeah, well, I happen to think Ron can do so much better than Draco fucking Malfoy.”

Blaise smiled and looked down. “Ah. Yes, dear Draco does have a certain way about him doesn’t he?” He looked up at Harry with eyes sparkling with amusement.

Harry raised an eyebrow. He didn’t think it was funny.

“Oh, Harry,” Blaise shook his head. “Think about it. Has Ron ever mentioned Malfoy being an obnoxious little tit, with too much money and not enough manners?”

Well, at least Blaise knew the Malfoy Harry knew, that was for sure. So, how come Ron couldn’t see it?

Oh, right.

Harry shrugged this time. “Okay, so Malfoy’s putting on some sort of act. Obviously trying to charm his way into Ron’s pants. What does that prove? Other than he can be a sneaky little bastard when he wants something.”

Blaise laughed out loud. “Oh, he can be sneaky alright,” he agreed. “But he can also be fiercely protective of those he cares for, generous, funny and yes, charming. ” He looked at Harry suddenly serious. “Harry, I have known Draco since we were kids. I’ve seen just about every facet of his personality, good and bad. Of course, he has his faults but I have never seen him so completely smitten. He’s not trying to fool Ron. What Ron sees is what Ron brings out in Draco.” He started to snigger. “Also,” Blaise said. “His response to you, Harry, has largely been dictated by jealousy.”

Harry had been looking down at his carpet while Blaise spoke but his head shot up at that. “Jealousy? Of what?”

Blaise rolled his eyes again. “What do you think? He sees you with Ron _all_ the time. He follows Ron to a bar (he nodded his head at Harry’s incredulous look - “I thought we’d already established Draco’s stalker credentials, Harry”) and Ron’s there to meet you. He stakes out the shopping mall and you’re there looking at shoes with Ron. You go to parties together. You eat lunch, dinner and sometimes breakfast together. Jesus, Harry, _I’m_ jealous and I don’t even fancy Ron.” He grinned at Harry. “How did you think Draco would react? At this point, I think he’s about one more encounter away from paying some one to make you disappear."

Harry’s eyes went comically wide at that.

“It’s okay, Harry. I intend to make sure that the next encounter is one that Draco will be very grateful that you didn’t miss.” Blaise stood up suddenly and walked over to Harry. “Now, the question is are you going to help me, Harry?”

Harry bit his lip and thought about everything Blaise had said. He thought about Ron, about his face the night before when Viktor had walked away, the devastated look in his eyes as he’d walked back to his room. Then, he thought about how Ron had looked every time they’d bumped into Malfoy recently. How his eyes had lit up and his smile had grown brighter. Finally, he thought about the smiling, almost shy, softly spoken Malfoy he saw whenever Malfoy talked to Ron. And he made his decision.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I’ll help.”

~~~

“Right then,” said Harry standing up. “Time to go home.”

Ron looked up from his half-eaten ice cream. “Harry, I swear I am going to stick this spoon somewhere you really, really don’t want me to, if you don’t sit the fuck down and let me finish this ice cream.”

Harry slumped back down in his seat and whined. “Come on, Ron. There’s a bus in ten minutes, if we leave now we’ll just make it.”

Ron reached over and hit Harry on the forehead with his spoon. “Seriously, Harry, I will fuck you up, with or without the use of this spoon.” And he waved it in Harry’s face.

Harry sighed. “Okay, but hurry the fuck up.”

He watched Ron eat the ice cream and nervously glanced at his watch. Blaise was going to kill him if he didn’t get Ron back to their room in the next half hour. It really shouldn’t have mattered what time they got back, as long as they got there before the party finished, except for one small but very important fact - Harry’s life sucked like a great big sucky thing that really fucking sucked.

Blaise had told Harry earlier, that he was going to throw an impromptu post-Halloween party and invite the whole floor including Malfoy. Harry had been given the task of getting Ron out of the room long enough that Blaise could setup for the party. They both knew that they had to keep the whole party thing from Ron; there was no way after the previous night’s disaster that he was willingly going to show up to another one the very next day.

It had taken a considerable amount of persuasion but finally Harry had managed to lure him out with promises of unfeasibly large ice creams. Unfortunately, they had walked right into Malfoy as they were coming out of the lift. After several rounds of embarrassed "sorrys" and much awkward shuffling of feet, Malfoy had looked up at Ron, his eyes resting for a moment on Ron’s jacket.

“Oh, you’re going out?” Malfoy had asked looking confused.

“Erm, yeah,” Ron had glanced uneasily at Harry. “We’re just going to get some ice cream.”

Malfoy’s shoulders had slumped visibly. “Oh,” he’d said sounding disappointed. “Well, enjoy.” And with a last mournful look at Ron, and a narrowed eyed evil glare at Harry, he’d stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the seventh floor.

Ron had taken a step forward and looked like he was about to say something but the doors had closed before he had been able to get a word out. Harry had felt dizzy with relief. Without any further preamble, he’d grabbed hold of Ron’s arm and pulled him out the doors and towards the bus stop.

They’d been on a bus heading downtown when he’d received a text from Blaise.

_Wot the fuck did u do 2 D? he’s talking contract killer. get R back asap. not sure how long D will stay._

Seriously, Harry’s life sucked.

~~~

“Are you sure, Harry? Only mental health isn’t something to be taken lightly.” Ron said, grinning at Harry.

“Fuck off, Ron,” Harry replied, deadpan. They were on the bus going back to the dorm.

“But no really, Harry, your behaviour has been a bit schizophrenic tonight. First, you spend nearly an hour trying to persuade me to go and get bloody ice cream with you and then when I can’t stand your yapping anymore and give in, you can’t wait to drag me back to the dorm. I mean what’s up with that?”

“I told you,” Harry replied rolling his eyes, “I just remembered that I had an essay due in tomorrow that’s all.”

“Yeah, right.” Ron didn’t sound convinced. The bus pulled to a stop outside their dorm and Ron stood up and walked toward the exit. Harry followed behind praying that Malfoy would still be there when they got to the party.

When they stepped out of the lift on their floor, Ron turned to Harry. “So,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry shook his head. “Actually, erm, I just need to borrow a book from Blaise.” And he headed along the hall to Ron’s room.

“Really,” Ron said from behind him. “I didn’t know you and Blaise shared any classes.”

“Um, no, I mean yeah.” Harry hadn’t thought this far ahead. Luckily he was saved from having to come up with any further explanation when they turned the corner and Ron was immediately distracted by the loud music coming from the open door of his room.

“What the fuck,” Ron mumbled, ducking through the door. Harry followed warily behind. This was where it could all go tits up.

The first person Ron encountered was Malfoy. He looked like he was on his way out but stopped as soon as he saw Ron.

“Oh, you're back,” Malfoy said, and his face lit up.

“Yeah,” Ron said and even from behind him Harry could tell he was smiling. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Ron went on, taking a step closer to Malfoy.

Harry’s mum had raised no fool; he swerved around the two of them and went in search of beer.

A short while later, Harry walked out of the bathroom and noticed Ron was sitting in the study area, looking up at Malfoy who was sitting close to him on the desk. Malfoy was leaning down towards Ron, who was leaning up to meet him. Harry walked quickly back into the kitchen.

When Harry next headed for the bathroom, Malfoy was straddling Ron’s lap, he had both hands in Ron’s hair and was kissing Ron with all the pent up frustration of two months patient stalking. Ron had his own hands shoved up the back of Malfoy’s shirt and was returning his kisses just as enthusiastically.

Harry decided he really didn’t need the bathroom after all and backed carefully away.

~~~

The next morning at exactly 9am, Harry walked into Ron’s room and jumped onto Blaise’s empty bed. He looked at the lifeless lump lying under the covers on Ron’s bed and grinned.

“I know you’re awake under there, Ron. Blaise just left and we both know there’s no way you slept through the moisturising of the thighs.”

He picked up the rubber stress buster Blaise kept on his shelf and threw it at where he thought Ron’s head probably was.

“Come on, you git. Get up and tell me all about your new boyfriend.”

He sing-songed the last part in as annoying a voice as he could manage (he nodded happily to himself, he had to admit, it was pretty damn annoying).

There was a moment’s silence, followed by the sound of unhappy grunting and then Ron’s head slowly emerged from the covers.

“Fuck off, Harry,” he said, grinning.

Harry grinned back. He had a funny feeling the rest of the year was going to prove very interesting.

 

_End_


End file.
